


i hate that i

by nastyboy



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Smut, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 20:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16047821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastyboy/pseuds/nastyboy
Summary: “Why are you here, Takeshi?”The name slips out, missing it’s usual formal tone. It’s murmured into the air on an exhale, as if Gokudera can’t stop himself. Yamamoto tugs gingerly on his arm until Gokudera moves with the motion, curling into his chest, and hating himself while he does.





	i hate that i

**Author's Note:**

> have some angsty smut, boyos

There is a knock on the door. Three raps of knuckles, almost too soft to hear.

It must be Tsuna, or Bianchi, coming to check up on him. Gokudera knows he seemed unhinged during the debriefing. It wouldn’t take an expert sleuth to gather that something was wrong, what with the emotional outburst being more spontaneous and frantic than the usual irritation. More upset than anger. He rubs his hands over his face, leaning back into the couch, and willing them to leave him be. He closes his eyes listening to the tick, tock of the clock, and the drip drip drip of the loose faucet in the kitchenette.

Another knock makes him sigh, fiery glare fixing his face as he opens his eyes. He gets to his feet, too tired to even make a show of stomping as he approaches the door. The knob sticks as he yanks to open, so it takes a second to swing open, but Gokudera recognizes the telltale aura pouring through the doorway immediately. His words die in his throat, and his stomach drops out when, true to feeling, Yamamoto greets him. 

“Hey,” Yamamoto's voice is unbearably quiet. Gentle, concerned. It makes Gokudera stomach clench with longing. There’s no way to stop his mind from salvaging memories he had carefully buried. The feeling of Yamamoto's arms wrapped around him tight and warm, the heat between their kisses, the reverent way he would moan Gokudera’s name when he would fuck into him. It’s overwhelming, making his eyes sting with unshed tears, and he wrenches them back by blinking his eyes desperately. His mind snaps back into focus when Yamamoto suddenly clears his throat. His voice is more firm, but the concern is still there when he continues, “I came to check on you. You seemed...”

“Angry,” his typical scowl slips into place effortlessly, “now, leave.” Gokudera begins to close the door on Yamamoto, but is stopped by a hand on the frame. Gokudera tracks the motion of Yamamoto's other hand as it rubs nervously over the back of his neck. He looks bashful, like he actually believed Gokudera’s act.

“Upset.” he corrects, “Let me in. I wanna help. I’m... worried about you, ‘Dera.” Gokudera doesn’t stop the motion as Yamamoto pushes to the door open because all his strength leaves him as that nickname. He would accuse Yamamoto of exploiting his weaknesses, if he was a lesser man. He grumbles to himself instead, pulling away from the door to cross his arms over his chest as Yamamoto enters. Gokudera becomes suddenly aware of what a mess he looks; open shirt and pants, ransacked hair, bloodshot eyes. Tension sews up the line of his spine when Yamamoto steps close behind him, hovering near enough for Gokudera to feel the warmth flowing from his person.

“You haven’t talked to me in weeks .Or Tsuna. Or Bianchi.” The names are rushed out after a pause, but Gokudera doesn’t pay attention to it, too busy fighting the urge to lean back against what he knows will be a broad, strong chest. Yamamoto is silent behind him, most likely taking in the junk littered about the room, the blankets haphazardly thrown over the couch, the empty bottles filling the coffee table. Gokudera’s eyes flick to the unopened bottle he had grabbed for tonight, and anger flares at the thought of Yamamoto judging him.

“Communication’s a two way street, you know. Have any of you tried talking to me?” Gokudera turns to glare at Yamamoto, taking pride in the awkward hand rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. 

“No. We haven’t, but I’m here now.” Gokudera’s chuckle is coated in sarcasm as he looks to the new bottle of whiskey on the table. Yamamoto's gaze follows his, desperate for something to change the subject. Surprise shows in his voice when he speaks. “Not drinking tonight?” 

“Convinced myself not to. Might change that now that you’re here.” Long, warm fingers wrapping around Gokudera’s wrist stops him when he goes to grab the bottle of amber liquid. Tired eyes bore into the contact, face pinching in discomfort as his brain tells him to just let go, to fall into cozy arms, that it will be the last time. The last time he drown his sorrows in Yamamoto instead of caffeine and nicotine and alcohol. His skin feels super heated as Yamamoto trails a cool touch along his smooth forearm, then back down tracing the lines of his hand and fingers. Gokudera sighs in contentment despite himself when he feels the familiar tingle of Yamamoto’s rain flames soothing the rough edges of his storm.

“Why are you here, Takeshi?”

The name slips out, missing it’s usual formal tone. It’s murmured into the air on an exhale, as if Gokudera can’t stop himself. Yamamoto tugs gingerly on his arm until Gokudera moves with the motion, curling into his chest, and hating himself while he does. He tucks his head into Yamamoto's throat so he doesn’t have to look at him, hands sliding around his waist, and clasping in the fabric of his jacket. Big hands runs along his back, slipping under his shirt to squeeze and massage his tension away. A pleased sound hums out of Gokudera. 

“I wanted to offer some comfort to you.” Gokudera’s anger at himself grows when he doesn’t push Yamamoto away, instead pulls him closer with please on the tip of his tongue. Yamamoto left hand drags up the curve of his back to twist into his hair, threading into the thick, silver tresses to drag Gokudera’s head back. 

“Are you sure about that, dumbass?” The bitterness is a last ditch effort to make Yamamoto leave, because Gokudera’s not strong enough to pull himself away. The hand in his hair tightens, and Yamamoto tilts his head so he can brush lip to lips tauntingly, until Gokudera lets his mouth fall open on the softest whine.

It’s too easy to go with the flow after that, as Yamamoto crushes their mouths together, muffling Gokudera’s sweet moans to plunge his tongue in savagely. He explores as if this is the first time, as if he didn’t know just how to kiss him, as if he wasn’t too good at making Gokudera melt in his hold with nothing more than this. They pull back only when they’re desperate for breath, and even then it’s not far; they stay intoxicatingly near, gasping into each other’s lips because they’re greedy for the intimate closeness. It’ been weeks since the last did this with their hectic schedules and Gokudera’s stubbornness. His hands come up to cup Yamamoto's jaw, roping him into short, hurried bursts of pressure that are more panting swipes of tongue than kisses, and Yamamoto's digs his hand in on either side of Gokudera’s lower back, causing him to arch so they stay crowded together. Gokudera groans into their kisses when Yamamoto’s erection slots against the dip of his hip, making pleasure skate up his spine like electricity, and then back down to settle with the simmering molten pleasure in his gut.

The heady feeling makes desperation zip through him like a shock. Hands paw at ties and buttons and belts as Gokudera walks them backwards toward the open bedroom door. He’s gotten Yamamoto's shirt and suit jacket off him by the time he falls back onto the mattress. Yamamoto's scoops his legs over his left arm to press his knees to his chest when he crawls over Gokudera to kiss him again before trailing down to nibble his collar bone. Gokudera’s stomach muscles clench to keep his legs up when Yamamoto's hold changes, his hand sliding down to prod in the cleft of his ass. He crosses his ankles, hooking them over Yamamoto shoulder to give him more room, sighing out as fingers rub gently at his entrance and teeth worry the skin of his neck. He’s already slick, and it worsens with his thighs clenched together, squeezing his clit in delicious, tantalizing pressure.

“Lube?” The question is rumbled into his skin, and Gokudera wants to say don’t bother, but he knows he’s not wet enough without it.

“Duffle.” He says. Yamamoto leaves him with a ginger kiss to the bruise he had just made, and Gokudera slings an arm over his eyes as he waits, listening to Yamamoto rustle around in the other room. The reprieve from the heady trance of arousal, lets him think clearly for a moment. He know he needs to stop this, that it won’t make him feel better, but he can’t. He’s addicted to it now, the strange, inexplicable intimacy of sex with Yamamoto. Gokudera doesn’t understand why it’s so potent, why he needs this, but he does all the same.

It’s so much work to be angry at the fact that he keeps coming back to this crutch, so he takes a breath and decides not to be for once.

Gokudera jerks when the fingers come back lukewarm, pressing and rubbing insistently between his lips. Yamamoto kisses an apology and a playful smile into his knee, spreading Gokudera’s legs wide with his free hand to press his index finger in deep. His bites along the inside of Gokudera’s thighs are sufficiently distracting as Yamamoto quickly wiggles in a second finger. A hiss escapes him at the ginger catch and burn, but he’s doesn’t miss a beat in pushing back onto the fingers thrusting into him. Yamamoto continues stretch him open thoroughly, working in deep to massage his walls, adding copious amounts of lube before the third finger. Time stretches with him as Yamamoto's teases him with fleeting rubs and full thrusts exactly where he wants them. Gokudera gets fed up just as his legs start to shake with the pleasure, and props himself up on his arms to scowl down between his thighs, shivering when Yamamoto presses against him just right.

“Hey,” Gokudera cuts himself off with a moan before reaching down to pull Yamamoto's fingers out of his cunt. It’s easy to lure Yamamoto up for a kiss, tugging lightly on the caught wrist. “Lay down for me.” Gokudera presses resolutely on his shoulders until he gets Yamamoto to lay supine on the mattress. He shifts down the bed, hooking his hands in Yamamoto's splayed open fly and the boxer briefs underneath to pull them down in one fell swoop. He barely struggles with the laces on Yamamoto's boots, then crawls carefully back up his body with one hand outstretched for the condom. The plastic pressed excitedly into his palm makes him smirk. He tears it open quickly, stroking it over Yamamoto's dick with a glob of lube before moving to hover over his hips. He reaches one hand between his legs to line up the bellend with his cunt before sinking down.

Gokudera pants into the open air as he seats himself fully on Yamamoto's dick. The combined feeling of the head brushing his spot and fullness pressing along his walls makes his thighs tremble. Yamamoto's bucks up into him, impatience showing, and Gokudera groans, head tilting to look at the man below him. His usual anger at the man below him, at his weakness for the man below him flares up again. He leans forward slightly, bracing his weight on his arms, hands dipping the bed on either side of Yamamoto's head. His thighs clench with pleasure when he grinds himself onto Yamamoto's dick, then he lifts his hips high and thrusts them back down hard. His pace is firm and rhythmic in a way that has him bouncing almost frantically on Yamamoto's dick. A moan rumbles its way through Yamamoto chest, up his throat, past his lips into the air, and Gokudera shifts himself onto one elbow, not stopping the motion of his hips. He’s close enough that with every push of his hips their chests and their lips brush. They don’t kiss, simply paint hot breaths over each other’s faces as Gokudera rides him. His blood boils over with pleasure, and he starts to lose himself in the thick, inebriating blanket of heat surrounding them, words flow out of his lips without thought. Under the slick squelch of their coupling, he’s repeatedly rasping out the words.

“I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.” Gokudera says, only half aware of the words stumbling past his lips.

Gokudera’s free hand grips Yamamoto's jaw as he continues this mantra, forcing eye contact as he says it, interrupted occasionally by moans of pleasure. He pulls back so their lips aren’t brushing anymore, and he can stare down at Yamamoto's face, open with pleasure. His finger drifts up, along the shell of his ear, soft enough to make him shudder under Gokudera. The finger continues its wandering path across one thick brow, to smooth down the bridge of his nose. The tip is tapped before the finger moves on to arc with his cheek bone, then curve down to the corner of his mouth. Brown eyes flick to Gokudera’s face as Yamamoto feels the finger trail along his lower lip then to the scar on his chin, watching when Gokudera chews his lips in pleasure, or concentration, or both. Their gazes meet, and the motion of his hips stutters. He’s sees something that he doesn’t let himself decipher in the depths of those eyes, and it’s beyond overwhelming.

His hips choke to an intoxicatingly slow roll that has Yamamoto moaning Gokudera’s name in a way that makes something inside him just break. One of Yamamoto's hands comes up to grab his face to tug him down and mesh their lips together. It’s an entirely different beast than the kisses they had shared up until now. It’s tender and heated and passionate; intense in a way that flurried, desperate kisses can’t compare to. They come apart when Gokudera starts uncontrollably hiccupping gasps into the kiss. Yamamoto's brings his other hand from where it was rubbing along Gokudera’s knee to brush his cheek, and Gokudera realizes that he’s crying. He’s near sobbing, and he can’t stop. He keeps moving his hips in that infuriatingly heavy pace, but his words change.

“I hate you, I hate that I—.”

Yamamoto digs his fingers in further, using his grip to start moving with Gokudera, not changing the pace just putting more force behind the grinds. The twisting heat in their guts builds with more fervor as they meet each other fluidly in every motion. Gokudera adjusts himself to lean their forehead together, fat tears tumble down in drops onto Yamamoto's cheeks. A thrust brushes particularly well against his walls, and he curses his eyes flying open wide. He is startled by the sight of compelling brown eyes. Yamamoto is just staring at him. His pleasure spikes as he sees that same nameless, oppressive emotion still swirling in those eyes. Gokudera gets overwhelmed suddenly with the culmination of his feelings and the pleasure and the look in Yamamoto's eyes. And the words change again.

“I hate that I—, I—, I love you. _I love you_.”

He can’t shut his mouth. He keeps babbling the sentences as he keeps moving harmoniously with Yamamoto. A hand wraps around the back of Gokudera’s neck, pulling him into another intense kiss, and the pressure snaps. Orgasm washes over him like a wave crashing and breaking over rocks, his cunt squeezing in hard pulses around Yamamoto dick. His thighs shake and jerk with pleasure, and a sobbing moan spills out. He is vaguely aware of Yamamoto tensing under him before he blacks out. Gokudera comes back to himself on his back. Yamamoto’s head is pillowed on his chest, unruly black hair tickling his chin. Gokudera sighs, and lets his arm wrap over Yamamoto’s shoulder, nail scratching lightly along Yamamoto’s sun tanned shoulder until Yamamoto shits, bring a hands up to lace their fingers together. Content swells in his chest as Gokudera drifts into a deeper sleep.

 

When Gokudera wakes in the morning to a cooling space instead of a warm body, and a familiar ache in his lower back, he resents the sting of hurt in his chest. He should be used to this. No one has ever stayed after I love you, and he should stop expecting them to. Yamamoto has better things waiting for him, anyways.


End file.
